


Public, Private, Secret

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, John is a single parent, Love Confessions, M/M, Mostly mature with some fairly explicit content, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It, Retirementlock, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Separations, Sex, Sexual Tension, Sussex, Working through emotional baggage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-10 19:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7000585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To the outside world, Sherlock and John are just friends. In private, they're much, much more. They've agreed to keep their relationship a secret to protect John's daughter, but it's not going to be as simple as they hoped.</p><p>(A companion to  <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6093991/chapters/13968739">Coming of Age</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd recommend reading [Coming of Age](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6093991/chapters/13968739) first so events make more sense, but you can do as you please, of course! This story spans about 15 years with frequent jumps forward in time.
> 
> Author's Note: I wasn't planning to write this, but after finishing Coming of Age, I kept thinking about John and Sherlock's relationship under those circumstances. How did it start? Where did they meet for their trysts? How could they keep it secret for so long? 
> 
> So I dove in, and after much slow progress, this is what I came up with. A special shout out to Softelock, who sent me a lovely message that helped open up an angle into the story centered around their conversations when they're alone together. And thanks to [saturn_in_retrograde](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saturn_in_retrograde/pseuds/saturn_in_retrograde) for beta-ing.

 

**“All human beings have three lives: public, private, and secret.”**

  
**\-- Gabriel Garcia Marquez**

 

“Goodbye.”

Sherlock stands on the landing at the top of the stairs and watches them disappear under the arched doorway leading to the front door.

He drops his hand that had been raised in farewell and the smile slips from his face. He listens for it -- the solid thunk of the heavy black door closing -- and the silence settles around him. These are always the worst few moments, the slow drips of time after their departure.

Sherlock won’t let himself think about it. He can’t afford to dwell on it. There’s work to be done.

He turns on his heel and crosses the sitting room to his desk. He lifts a few papers, attempts to sort them, then can’t resist glancing out the window. He sees them, the tops of their heads, John’s outstretched arm hailing a cab, Olivia twirling absently around the base of a lamppost, her dark blonde ponytail swinging behind her.

He watches John extend his hand to Olivia and she takes it, giving a little skip before she hops into the back of the cab as John holds the door open.

In a flash, Sherlock remembers seeing Olivia for the first time some six years ago, nothing but a tiny clutching baby, pink skinned, blue eyed, oblivious to John's fatigue, fascinated by Mrs. Hudson’s fussing and cooing.

John had stopped by Baker Street, fulfilling his promise to visit Mrs. Hudson with his infant daughter. Sherlock had flicked his eyes dutifully over Olivia, then settled his gaze on John.

John was smiling faintly as Mrs. Hudson rocked Olivia in her arms. John looked up, clearly exhausted, his expression calm -- but there was something else: a hard edge of anger and determination. In that instant, Sherlock knew that Mary had left for good.

The cab pulls away. Tomorrow, John will go to work at the hospital and Olivia will go to school. Sherlock will haunt the morgue and harangue some lowly desk sergeant at the Yard, interrogate a witness, and find more reasons to text John.

They text often now, much more frequently than those days when Olivia was a baby and John was reeling from the demands of single parenting. Things had gradually eased as Olivia grew older. It also helped that John's sister, Harry, had sobered up and mended her tattered life. Harry now devoted a good deal of time to her niece, freeing some of John's time.

Sherlock typically sends John rapid-fire questions about adverse drug interactions or odd bruising patterns, and, when things are slower, mystified questions about celebrities or politicians he’s never heard of. John answers as soon as he can, often during a break at work or late at night, asking about the latest case or teasing Sherlock about his ignorance of popular culture.

They sometimes meet for coffee when John is in the city. Now that Olivia is older, John sometimes brings her along for a visit to Baker Street. Sherlock finds her to be a bright child, strangely self-possessed, curious about microscopes and skulls and beetles, able to eat numerous biscuits, capable of entertaining herself for a fair amount of time. She has John's dark blue eyes and stubborn streak. He's grown rather fond of her. He might decide to teach her poker or chess someday if she has the aptitude.

Sherlock picks up the papers from the desk again. It's enough, he tells himself, to see John regularly, to have his friendship, to know that he is well. Things will never again be like those heady, reckless days when it was just the two of them taking on the world.

His closely guarded hope that he and John might be something more than friends has dimmed over the years, but has never been extinguished. There are tortured midnight hours when Sherlock wishes that insistent small flame would die out for good and leave him in peace. But a flicker of foolish hope burns on, kindled occasionally by inexplicable gazes or unexpected touches from John.

He looks toward John's arm chair bathed in a shaft of sunlight, losing himself in thoughts of the past. He shakes himself, snaps back to the present. Time to get back to work.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John comes to say goodbye when Mrs. Hudson moves from her tidy flat on the ground floor to go live with her ailing sister.

She sniffs and flaps her hanky and dabs her eyes and tries to laugh as they share one last cup of tea together in 221B, but there's a sadness running through them all.

“I'll miss this place,” she says, her gaze roaming over the walls and windows. She looks at Sherlock, her eyes welling up again. “Even you, with your clients and violin and cursing at all hours.”

He tries to think of something clever and reassuring to say, and can think of nothing, already feeling the empty space her absence will leave in his chest.

She turns to John. “You'll check in on him, won't you? Make sure he's alright?”

“Of course,” John draws Mrs. Hudson into a hug and smiles over her head at Sherlock.

They see her off in a cab, Sherlock pressing a kiss to her cheek before she goes.

“Take care,” is all he can manage, a lump in his throat.

He’s glad John is there beside him as they watch the taxi blend into traffic and disappear. He doesn't really want to be alone right now.

“Another era comes to an end,” Sherlock says quietly, fingering the ring of keys in his hand. He now owns the entire building, having come to an agreement with Mrs. Hudson on the price. It had been her idea to sell it to him, and he'd gradually warmed to the idea. It’s probably the first sound investment he's ever made in his life.

John notices the keys and tries to lighten the moment. “Never thought you'd be a landlord.”

Sherlock’s not in the mood for it. “Never thought you'd live in the suburbs,” he snaps, then instantly regrets it when John’s mouth tightens in a frown. Sherlock passes a hand over his own mouth, wishing he could take the words back.

They stand awkwardly on the pavement, and Sherlock tries to salvage the situation. “I could do with a bite to eat.” He glances at John. “I'll buy.”

John keeps his gaze locked on a point somewhere down the street, then finally looks at Sherlock. “Sure. Fine. If you can stop being a dick.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth tilts up crookedly, and he lets John have the last word.

They walk to Angelo's and are seated at their usual table. They order Chianti and penne.

“So,” John begins, picking up his wine glass and toying with it, “will you be looking for a tenant for Mrs. Hudson’s flat?”

“No.” Sherlock watches the people outside as they walk by the window. “I'll enjoy the peace and quiet.”

“It won't be a bit... too quiet for you?”

“I'm used to it.”

John slides his thumb up and down the side of his glass. Sherlock can tell he wants to say something, but is holding back.

Sherlock stares pointedly at John until he looks up.

“What?” Sherlock asks. “You're dying to say something, so out with it. “

“I worry about you being alone, alright? At least Mrs. Hudson was there to keep an eye on you, and could call me if there was a concern.”

“She called you?” Sherlock asks incredulously.

“Occasionally, if you were gone for days on end without a word. When you looked… rough.”

Agitated, Sherlock takes a quick drink. “Waiting for the addict to revert back to old habits.”

“Maybe,” John answers quietly. “Or in case you got hurt, or needed help.”

Sherlock is annoyed, ashamed of his weaknesses, generally irritated at the day and everything changing again. “I don't need anybody worrying about me,” he growls, but his anger quickly flares out, ending in a sigh.

He’s so tired of hearing himself say that when he knows it isn't true. But the people he needs are bound to others who need them more. He's truly alone again, which was what he thought he’d always wanted, only it isn't.

“I'll be fine,” he says eventually. “I'll manage.”

John studies him. “Yes, I expect so. We always do.”

_We._ Sherlock can't help but notice the choice of pronoun. He slants his gaze at John, wondering.

John suddenly leans forward earnestly, placing a hand on Sherlock’s knee under the table. “You can always call me, you know. If you're ever in trouble. If you need anything.”

John stops, as if becoming aware of how hard he is gripping Sherlock's leg. He relaxes his hold but doesn't remove his hand, leaving an imprint that burns through the fabric into Sherlock's skin.

This is one of those touches that stokes the tiny flame of hope inside of Sherlock. But these moments unnerve him, he's never quite sure what they mean. He can usually read other people like a book, but he can't decipher John's current intentions.

There have been many such encounters over the years -- glances and touches and cryptic words that might or might not have a deeper meaning in them. A gaze deepened by longing. A touch simmering with hidden desire. He sometimes thinks he sees a flicker, then it vanishes. Or maybe he's just projecting his own feelings onto the situation, feelings he’s kept repressed far too long.

He isn't prepared for the flood of memories surging back -- John's stag night, both drunk, John's hand grasping his knee, impulses half recognized, almost acted on, ultimately thwarted. If only they'd said something, done something that night, before it was too late.

But no, he had to go back further, find the true source of blame: himself. If only he hadn't lied to John about his disappearance, leaving him in the dark for two years about his faked suicide, breaking his trust… losing him.

He needs to say something now. He swallows. “John --”

The waiter approaches and John carefully withdraws his hand. The moment is lost again. But once the server is gone, John looks at him, searching his face.

Sherlock takes a breath. “I promise to call you if I need anything,” he says, unable to admit anything more out loud.

The rest of dinner is strained, charged with a strange current of unspoken words. They talk about safe things -- a recent murder case, an opportunity for John to give a guest lecture on emergency medicine at Bart's.

They exit the restaurant, and John checks his watch. “I should be going.”

Sherlock nods, then John curses softly.

“Dammit, I left my jacket at the flat.” He glances at his watch again, calculating the time, wavering on what to do.

“If we hurry, you can still catch the 8:00 train,” Sherlock offers. He’s memorized the schedule, although he never takes the train to visit John. He can't invade that space, a home he pictures filled with children's shoes and scattered toys and bright paintings Olivia brings home from school.

They walk quickly back to the flat, not talking. Sherlock unlocks the front door, hesitating just a beat in the dark entryway, noticing the absence of light glowing from Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen. He shakes it off and flicks on the switch to illuminate the stairs.

They tread up the creaky steps and John sweeps into the sitting room, glancing around for his coat. Sherlock sees it first. He picks up the black jacket slung over the back of a chair. It's leather, weighty and supple. The rich scent reaches his nostrils as his fingers curl around the buttery collar. He holds it out to John.

“Here.”

John closes the few steps between them and reaches out to take the jacket.

There's something primal about the leather scent hanging in the air. John's fingers brush against Sherlock's as his hand grasps the jacket, the brief contact of their skin sending another current through Sherlock’s body. Some deep part of him doesn't want John to leave. He doesn't let go of the jacket.

Caught off guard, John smiles wryly, wondering if it's some kind of joke. He tugs again, and Sherlock still doesn't release his grip.

Sherlock says nothing, but slowly draws the jacket toward his chest, pulling John a few inches closer.

Confusion quickly ripples across John’s face, which finally settles into uncertainty as he looks up at Sherlock.

There's nothing premeditated in Sherlock's actions; he's merely responding to the stillness of the flat, the hand on his knee, the texture of leather, the nearness of John, the years of wanting something he’s never had.

John's lips part, nearly forming a word but failing. Sherlock winds his fingers tighter into the jacket, effectively drawing John incrementally closer. Sherlock’s eyes lock onto John's, watching for a sign, a warning or a welcome.

He sees hesitation, arousal. It's the dilated pupils that invite him to lean down and pull slowly on the jacket that’s clutched like a shield between them, a soft, useless barrier.

Their mouths are so close, their warm breath mingling, pulses hammering, skating on the edge of something dangerous. Every nerve is concentrated on the space hovering between their lips. Sherlock closes his eyes against the pain of his heart beating manically in his chest.

The first touch of lips is so light he can't quite trust that it's real. A faint meeting of mouths, a delicate brush as if they might shatter into a million pieces at the slightest pressure. There is a pause, a sensing of whether to withdraw or continue, then Sherlock feels John's fist tightening on the jacket, and their lips are skimming, pressing, clinging.

Sherlock's hand twines over John's where it grasps the coat, the fingers of John’s other hand come to rest tentatively at the base of Sherlock's neck just inside the opening of his shirt collar.

Time melds into shallow breath and whispery, urgent kisses and quietly giving in to one moment, two moments, three moments more. Then John pulls back, his lowered lashes hiding his eyes. He exhales shakily.

Sherlock fears the next few seconds, dreads what John will do or say. _I can't … I don't… I'm not…_

So Sherlock speaks first, his voice low and strange to his own ears. “I'm sorry,” he says, letting go of John's hand and the jacket, taking a small step away.

John lifts his gaze to Sherlock, not angry, not embarrassed, not flustered. Something closer to sorrow is in his eyes. “Don't be,” he says softly, then looks down again. “I should… I should go. Liv --”

John stops after saying his daughter’s name and turns toward the door, dazed. He doesn't say goodbye, doesn't look back as he vanishes down the steps.

Sherlock watches him leave, teetering somewhere uncertainly between hope and hopelessness.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days pass and Sherlock hears nothing from John, and doubt gnaws at his insides. No one really notices, though, he hides it so well behind his usual brusque behavior. Lestrade just thinks he's irritable, short on sleep and patience.

On a side street just before 11:30 at night, Sherlock can stand it no longer. He ducks into the doorway of a closed-up shop and takes his phone from his pocket.

He types only one character and sends it to John.

_?_

He waits, his gaze roving over the rain-slicked streets. He's dying for a cigarette but won't give in.

Maybe John is sleeping, or working a late shift. Maybe John is ignoring him, wishing that evening had never happened.

No reply comes and he walks on, his hands shoved in his pockets. He's too old for this, full of worry and heartsick. He'd avoided all these complications for years, and now drifting in his 40s he’s as moody as a teenager. Pathetic.

A familiar litany of self-loathing rattles around in his brain, making the walk home pass in a dark haze. He's thinking about cigarettes again when he reaches Baker Street and his phone vibrates against his knuckles.

He fumbles to pull it free and reads the message. It's from John.

_It's not a good idea._

The words sting. Anger wells up as Sherlock sends a reply.

_Why?_

A long pause.

_It just isn't_

Another long pause, then John continues.

_I've got Liv to consider_

Sherlock clenches his jaw, stares at the phone in his hand. John is being understandably cautious, protective. Still… His fingers fly over the keyboard before he can change his mind.

_Can't we try?_

His plea remains trapped in the little bubble on the screen, a huge question filling a small space.

An answer that is not an answer slides in beneath it.

_I have to go. Sorry_

Sherlock lowers his phone. He doesn't know what to do. He only knows he can't lose John, and he will ruin it all if he doesn’t tread carefully.

 

******************

 

Sherlock does not press the matter, restraining his impulses to push through John's silence. So he waits and works, one week slipping by, then another, and another.

It’ll be fine, he tells himself early on, John will contact him. After a week, he carefully lowers his expectations to a neutral point. Perhaps it's better this way, letting the heat of the moment cool, the memory of their kiss fade away like a scar, and then things can go back to what they were. Friends. Close friends. At least there would be that.

He returns home one evening, coming to a halt on the steps, the keys in his hand. The brass door knocker has been moved. Mycroft. He grits the name out in a huff and pushes open the door in irritation. He stops short again when his eyes land on John sitting on the bottom stair step in the half dark.

A set of key dangles from John's fingers, throwing off a glint of light. He's kept the keys to the flat for years, never giving them back to Sherlock. Nor has Sherlock ever asked for them.

“I had a meeting this afternoon,” John offers by way of explanation. “So I stopped by...”

Sherlock leans one shoulder against the wall and stays several feet away from John. His own keys jingle slightly in his hand.

John rubs his neck, uncomfortable. “I can't stay long.”

“I haven't asked you to.”

John shoots a guilty glance at Sherlock. “I suppose I deserve that,” John mutters. He lowers his head and continues to rub his neck as if it pains him. “I haven't been sleeping well,” he finally says.

“Nightmares?”

“No,” John stops kneading his shoulder and looks up at him. “It's something else.”

Sherlock watches him, saying nothing.

“I can't figure it out. God knows I've tried…” John laughs mirthlessly. “I don't know how to make it work.” He catches Sherlock's gaze and holds it. “Me, you… Liv.” He leaves the rest unsaid.

Sherlock has also wrestled with this triangle and knows he must step aside. “You're her father. She needs you. She needs stability.” And I'm unstable, Sherlock thinks. “I understand.” He's already released John from any obligation.

John nods silently, biting his lower lip. “But the thing is,” he says hesitantly, quietly, “I think … I… need you.”

Sherlock straightens up slowly as John stumbles on with his confession. “I haven't gone out with anyone in ages… I've told myself I’m too busy, it's too complicated with Liv…. But I haven't been interested in anyone, either. No one… except you.”

Sherlock takes an unconscious step forward and John talks on, almost as if to himself. “And then I think, it's crazy. My responsibilities, your work, the risks… God, the press…”

John rubs his neck again and Sherlock hovers closer. “And a minute later, I've convinced myself I'm overthinking everything. It could be simple.” John looks up into Sherlock's eyes, at a loss. “Couldn't it be? Simple?”

“Private,” Sherlock answers. “It could be private.”

They gaze at each other solemnly, weighing the implications of this exchange. John slowly rises to his feet, stands on the bottom step, eye to eye with Sherlock. John's hand flexes into a fist, a sign Sherlock recognizes as stress.

”I want to trust you,” John says tersely.

Sherlock knows he's not just talking about being discreet. This goes to the heart of it -- the pain he caused all those years ago. The lies. The disappearing without a trace.

“I would never hurt you. Or Olivia. I would never do that,” his voice is shaky with emotion.

John's hard expression relents into something softer, already sliding down the path of no return. “This is a terrible idea,” he says futilely, reaching for Sherlock, cupping his hands under his jaw, tilting his head, bringing their mouths together heatedly.

It's not a terrible idea, Sherlock thinks, his hands sliding up John's back, drowning in his kiss. It's marvelous. It’s long overdue. It's as necessary as air. It's unstoppable.


	3. Chapter 3

Fingers at the small of his back, cradling in the nook and slope of muscle, clothing discarded on the floor. Sherlock shivers, his skin overly sensitive as John runs his palms reverently down his back, over the curves of his hips, sliding around his ass.

They are alone, the lights are off in Sherlock's bedroom. This is the first time they’ve undressed completely, allowing for an unrushed and thorough exploration of each other's bodies.

In the weeks since that evening on the steps, they’ve graduated from aching kisses in the hallway to snogging on the sofa, rough groping, a hurried handjob. Time, there's never enough time. John slips away to Baker Street when he can -- after work, before a shift, once after the guest lecture at Bart's -- for 30 minutes, an hour, and then he has to go.

For the first time, they have an entire expanse of hours to themselves. Harry has taken Olivia for the night, treating her to a movie and a sleepover at her flat. John readily agreed when he saw Olivia’s eyes light up at the prospect of spending time with her aunt. After dropping Olivia off, he texted Sherlock to let him know he would come by.

John showed up at the flat with takeaway and a bottle of wine, pressing Sherlock eagerly against the table before opening the food or uncorking the wine.

“We have all night,” John murmured into his ear. “I don't have to leave until morning.”

They finally paused to devour the spicy red curry and crisp white wine, their faces flushed, their skin warm and yielding when the touching began again. It was still so new, this permission to graze and taste lips and throats and shoulders, to unbutton and unbuckle, to slide hands in private places.

This time, they have the luxury of going slowly. It feels heady, surreal, to move to the quiet bedroom illuminated by the glow of streetlights. Loosened shirts and jeans and trousers slither off, pants and socks skim away, and they stand facing, tracing lines delicately along arms, hardly daring to lower their eyes down the length of torsos to the thatches of dark hair and hardening cocks.

John’s hands circle around Sherlock’s waist, roaming to the small of his back, his hips, his buttocks.

Sherlock inhales, shuddering under John's touch. He can't quite believe this is happening, that he’s pulling John Watson closer, their thighs, their cocks, their bellies pressing hot between them, their mouths wet with probing, curling tongues.

John tastes of spices and wine, his body is compact, shoulders firm, hands strong. Sherlock wants to be pinned under his weight, caged between his arms, and then, maybe then he'll truly accept that he and John are in this bedroom, free to kiss and tangle, lick and gasp, rut and moan.

The duvet is soft and the mattress cradles them when they sink down onto the bed.

“You're gorgeous,” John breathes, his lips on Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock smiles, flattered and a bit embarrassed. John is a talker, he's learning, bestowing compliments as he unwraps the gifts of Sherlock's body. John is an experienced lover. He is not.

There have been encounters; he's not exactly virginal. There was someone he thought was special once, a lifetime ago. But it was never like this -- he's never felt this way. Cared for, adored. He's still adjusting to that, so his own hands feel clumsy in comparison, impassioned words catch in his throat before he can say them aloud.

So he lets John set the pace, and gladly writhes under his caresses, turns his neck for more kisses, opens his knees so John can fit between them and hold him down, keeping him tethered to the moment.

His cock is stiff against John’s and they move, hips grinding and mouths seeking. John's fingers wind into Sherlock’s hair, pulling just hard enough to make Sherlock dig his nails responsively into John's shoulders.

“God, I’ve wanted this,” John murmurs, dragging his cock over Sherlock's, the friction building, pleasure mounting,

It's so much, the moist breath near his ear, the rasp of stubble against his cheek, nerves singing, overstimulated -- Sherlock gasps, his hips jerk, and he comes, spilling hot and sudden over his stomach.

For a moment, he's mortified. It seems like they've barely begun, and he's spent already. John pulls back a bit, and Sherlock has the irrational thought that he's getting up to leave, so he clutches at John's back, his body pulsing with a confusing mix of post-orgasmic bliss and sudden fear.

“John--” he utters his name and John's mouth is on his again, hungry, relentless. John shifts his weight and grasps his own cock in his fist, his forearm sawing urgently above Sherlock's hip.

Sherlock’s hands curve possessively around John's flanks, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. He’s mesmerized by John's face, the dark lashes, the wrinkle in his furrowed brow, the soft space between his parted lips, a balance of tension and sensuality just before reaching climax.

John’s breath quickens, and Sherlock glides the pads of his fingers over the tight buds of John's nipples, eliciting a moan as spurts of milky come lace over Sherlock's pale skin.

John sinks onto him, slicking their abdomens together, lowering his head into the crook of his shoulder.

“Christ,” John sighs.

Sherlock's not entirely sure that’s a good response. “Alright?” he asks tentatively.

“Hmm?” John asks sleepily, then lifts his head to gaze at Sherlock. He smiles before kissing him gently. “Perfect.”

Sherlock cards his fingertips through the silky hair at the back of John's head, enveloped by the warmth of John's body. He smiles back, reassured.

They lie curled together, lost in their own thoughts for several minutes, then John slips from the bed to fetch a damp flannel to clean up with. When he returns to the bedroom, Sherlock is missing, along with the sheet.

He soon appears in the doorway, the sheet around his shoulders, something in his hand. He holds it out to John.

“Your phone,” Sherlock says. “In case Olivia needs something. You should have it close by.”

“Thank you,” John replies, clearly moved by Sherlock's gesture. He quickly checks for messages, and finding none, sets the phone carefully on the bedside table. He pulls Sherlock back down to the bed, the white sheet drifting unevenly around them.

John lies on his back and Sherlock snugs against him.

“Thank you for caring about her,” John adds softly.

Sherlock knows he’s referring to more than bringing the phone. He places his lips on John's shoulder, hoping to convey something beyond words. He would walk through fire for John, and for Olivia. They are an unlikely triad, with John as the pivot point. “Of course.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

John watches them from his vantage place in the kitchen where he has placed the empty tea cups near the sink.

Sherlock and Olivia are peering intently at the chess board, strategizing. Olivia must be winning, judging by the pile of fallen pieces on her side of the table. Sherlock puts out his hand, reaching for his queen, then he glances at Olivia. He stops.

“What? Why are you smiling?”

“No reason,” Olivia grins, biting her thumbnail.

Sherlock frowns and stares at the board. “I don't see it. You've laid a trap, haven't you?”

John smiles, not sure if Sherlock is humoring her or is actually confounded. John turns back to the sink to wash up the cups, nabbing the last biscuit remaining on a plate. They are Olivia's favorite, and Sherlock always has them on hand for her when they visit.

It's winter, a Saturday afternoon, the fire glowing in the grate. These are the moments when John is lulled into thinking of how good it could be, the three of them together, cozy and content.

Then his eyes turn to the case wall, to the faces of victims and criminals, maps pushed-pinned with locations of bodies, lab reports of bullet fragments and toxic substances. He’s asked Sherlock not to display the most gruesome photos on the wall, so those are sequestered in the files on the desk -- crime scenes, blood splatter patterns, disfigured corpses.

He knows Sherlock has not stopped taking risks. He’s seen the scabs on Sherlock's knuckles, the bruises on his ribs, the black eye and lacerations. He knows about the death threats and hate mail.

He looks at his daughter, her gangly legs folded in the armchair. He can't drag her any further into this world.

John is used to living in two worlds at the same time. He pictures them like two circles in a Venn diagram. One is the public sphere -- his life with Olivia and Harry, the hospital and patients, homework and telly, the laundry and the shopping.

The other circle is the private world he inhabits with Sherlock -- sheets and skin, whiskey and shadows, precious minutes and long separations. There is a tiny segment where the two worlds overlap, and that space is here -- the weekend visits -- and they are powerfully appealing, but deceptively calm. The storms would come soon enough.

It's not always easy, but John has followed two rules to prevent the worlds from merging too far: Their relationship must be kept simple, and it must be kept private. The two parameters they set long ago.

Simple means accepting what they have and living in the moment, setting aside everything else when they are together. When it is time to part, they go their separate ways. They cannot ask the other to change, to quit, to give up anything.

Private means exactly that -- discreet. Secret. They meet in hotels sometimes, rendezvousing in distant neighborhoods or far away cities. Most often John vanishes in and out the back door through Mrs. Hudson’s old flat. He does not want to draw attention to their situation.

He doesn't like hiding the truth from Liv, but he's trying to protect her. She's barely 9. He doesn't want to see her hurt by malicious gossip or, God forbid, endangered in any way. He doesn't want her to get too close. If Sherlock were to disappear or get himself killed--

A cup slips from his hand and breaks loudly in the sink. Olivia and Sherlock both look up, startled. John stares dumbly at the sharp fragments.

“It's okay,” he finally says. “Just clumsy.” He starts to pick up the pieces.

A few minutes later, after Olivia has won the game, Sherlock comes into the kitchen and stands near John.

“Everything alright?” he asks.

John nods. “Sorry.” He notices Olivia has flopped onto the couch, her back to the kitchen, her nose buried in a book.

Sherlock curves his hand on John's hip, drops a silent kiss on his neck, and moves away again.

John glances at Olivia, the book still raised, and wonders if and when he’ll ever tell her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come soon! I'd love to hear your thoughts on this so far.


	4. Chapter 4

The hotel was once grand, but now is showing its age. Slightly faded curtains, worn carpet, countless coats of paint that can't hide decades of minor scuffs and dents. John doesn't mind because the bed is comfortable, the bathtub is large, he's finished the last day of a conference, and he’s just opened the door to the welcome sight of Sherlock. They have two full days together.

Sherlock's coat and hair are damp, as is his mood. “Delightful weather, Glasgow,” he grumbles.

John takes his coat, drapes it over a chair to dry while Sherlock drops an overnight bag on the dresser and goes to look out the window. John thinks he detects a slight limp to Sherlock's gait.

“Good trip?”

“Fine,” Sherlock answers absently, his hand still holding back the curtain, watching the gloomy evening.

John comes up behind him, links his arms around Sherlock's waist, breathes in his scent. Traces of smoke, rain, wool, cologne. Sherlock turns in John's arms, bending down for a proper greeting.

John is still sometimes awed to find that gorgeous mouth on his, amazed that he's permitted to wend his hand up that long neck and into those waves of dark hair.

He helps slide off Sherlock's black suit jacket, hangs it over another chair while Sherlock slips off his shoes. They lower onto the bed, nestle together, and both sigh heavily.

They're tired. Too tired, in fact, to do anything but lie in the darkening room, one lamp casting a pool of yellow light in the corner. John runs his fingers lightly over Sherlock's temple, admiring the strands of silver forming there.

His own hair has gone almost completely grey. He needs reading glasses and his shoulder aches in cold weather. Time rolls on and there's nothing they can do about it.

Sherlock shifts a bit, moves his leg, and shifts again, exhaling impatiently.

“Damn knee,” he mutters.

“What’s wrong?”

“Sprained it,” Sherlock says unhappily. “Misjudged a landing.”

John doesn't want to know what he was jumping off of or why. “Well, your body’s not as young as it used to be.”

Sherlock harrumphs. “Don’t hear you complaining about it, old man.”

John grins, running his palm over the muscles of Sherlock's back, down to grasp one firm buttock. “No complaints.” His hand roams, his voice suggestive. “I recommend some bed rest for that knee. How about I examine you tomorrow… Maybe initiate some physical therapy?”

Sherlock is drifting off under John's caresses, a faint smile on his lips. “Whatever you say, Doctor.”

They fall asleep, fully clothed, breathing softly in unison.

 

 ******************

 

The next day they enjoy a late breakfast, walk a bit around the city, browse a bookstore, have a coffee, take a rest to ice Sherlock's knee. In the evening, they dine in a dim restaurant, then find a bar boasting an impressively long list of whiskeys. They can't help but sample several varieties.

By the time they return to the hotel, they're lightheaded, their cheeks rosy, their throats warmed by the sting of the liquor, their movements loose.

Once in the room, they reach for each other, not bothering to turn on the light. Sherlock presses John against the wall, mouth on his neck, hip bones digging into his pelvis.

John’s fingers bite into Sherlock’s back as Sherlock nuzzles that particularly sensitive spot beneath his ear.

They’ve learned things about each other over the past five years of intimacy, things they like, where they're ticklish, what’s pleasurable and what's not.

It's relaxed, the shedding of clothes, hands sliding over warm skin, smiles melding into kisses, whispers soft as the pillows on the welcoming bed.

John never tires of this, watching Sherlock’s hard edges blur under his touch, becoming pliant, arching his neck and back, exposing his vulnerabilities, trusting John completely.

John carefully bends back Sherlock’s bad knee, dots a line of slow kisses down his inner thigh, making Sherlock hitch and sigh.

By the time John eases the tip of his cock into him, Sherlock’s hands are greedy, clasping at John’s shoulder blades, urging him on.

“Eager, aren’t you?” John teases gently, pushing in just a bit deeper. He stops, pulls back, and starts again, slow, shallow thrusts, drinking in Sherlock’s face, how he’s biting his lower lip, sloe-eyed.

Damn those eyes. He’d do anything -- has done many things -- for a lingering gaze from those sea-change eyes. They are locked on him now, anticipating, desirous, half-lidded.

John dips his head down, nips at Sherlock’s lower lip, suckles it, releases it. “Tell me what you need,” John murmurs. He wants to hear him say it, wants that voice vibrating in his chest.

Sherlock blinks slowly as if coming out of a dream. “You…” his palms slide around the back of John’s neck, keeping him near. “I need you.”

John kisses him hard, feeling like he’s falling into a void, his heart tumbling, the crudeness of his cock and hands and mouth the only means of conveying what he’s bursting to say, _I love you I love you I love you,_ every thrust and hot breath and groan a symphony of want.

Much as he tries, he won’t remember every detail; the sheen of sweat, the salty skin, rigid bone and flexing muscle, the crashing wave and sweeping undertow of orgasm, that sound -- that sultry, deep _ahh_ when Sherlock comes, eyes squeezed tightly shut as if it’s too much, tangled somewhere between pleasure and pain.

And for a few seconds, it is too much, John thinks, too much to bear parting again in 24 hours. Too much to pretend they’re something else other than this: raw and naked and fucking, panting into collar bones.

Lips brush across foreheads, they roll onto their sides and gaze at each other.

How have they not said it, John wonders, those three words? It’s been implied, demonstrated, enacted, but never precisely spoken.

Silent, he traces his hand over Sherlock’s shoulder, down to the bullet scar on his chest. He’s afraid, he realizes, of breaking some spell, of bringing down the wall that separates their two worlds, unleashing a flood that might drown them all.

He eventually turns onto his other side and Sherlock loops an arm over his hip. John closes his eyes, opens them again briefly to confirm that his phone is on the nightstand, just in case, then settles into the curve of Sherlock’s chest. They still have another day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock glances at the bedroom clock. Nearly five in the morning. The stitches itch and he has to resist scratching his arm. Thirteen stitches, to be precise. Must be his lucky number, he thinks ruefully.

He closes his eyes, sees the glint of the knife blade slashing towards him. It happened so quickly; he had thrown his arm up defensively, the blade slicing through his sleeve and burning across his skin. He stumbled in pain, only to receive a blow to his head. He thinks he was kicked, he can't clearly recall. He just remembers that it fucking hurt.

His arm throbs, along with his sore head. That's what he gets for being careless on a case, he thinks. Stupid. Impatient.

The only upside is John sleeping curled next to him. John must have finally fallen asleep after watching him like a hawk most of the night, worried about a possible concussion.

Sherlock shifts so that he can see John’s face. The movement is enough to wake John, who comes to a focus quickly, a habit formed from years of being woken suddenly while on call.

“Hey,” John says softly. “How are you feeling?”

“Good enough,” Sherlock answers. John looks tired, and Sherlock feels guilty about involving him in his mistake. Oh god, and Olivia, who’s asleep upstairs. She shouldn't have been dragged into this drama.

“Sorry again,” Sherlock apologizes vaguely.

“Yeah, well…” John answers, equally vaguely.

They fall silent. Sherlock tentatively puts his palm on John's chest, feeling the warmth emanating through his T-shirt. John responds by draping a hand over Sherlock's hip.

Sherlock needs to say something else. “I'm glad you're here, though.”

John crooks a smile. “The things you'll do for attention.”

Sherlock gives him a small push on his chest, then regrets it when pain shoots up his arm.

John tries not to grin, then grows more serious. He grips Sherlock's hip, gives it a little shake. “Be more careful, will you?” he says earnestly, his eyes searching Sherlock's.

“I know.” If only it were that easy. Cases don’t get solved without taking some risks.

They drift into silence again, and he fingers the softness of John's shirt. One of his knuckles unintentionally brushes John's nipple, and it hardens, visible through the white fabric. He pauses.

John’s eyes darken, one hand slides up Sherlock's side, skimming under his light blue T-shirt, a thumb passing over his nipple in return. There's no hiding Sherlock's reaction under the thin cotton pajama bottoms. John notices, thrums the sensitive flesh again, and moves closer. He guides Sherlock onto his back, pushes the shirt up Sherlock's torso, lowers his mouth to the neglected nipple on the right.

Sherlock sighs, and John shifts, the bed creaking as he kisses his way down Sherlock's chest, to his stomach, past his navel.

“I know what’ll make you feel better,” John murmurs against Sherlock's skin, the stubble on his jaw prickling his lower belly. Sherlock sighs again, anticipation building.

When John’s fingers curl over his waistband and tug down, Sherlock digs his elbows into the mattress and lifts his hips, helping the striped cotton pajamas to slip down, freeing his cock.

John’s fingers circle around the start of his erection, toying with him, working him to a hard handful. John takes him in his mouth, and Sherlock inhales sharply at the sensation. Christ, there’s nothing else like it, tongue and heat, lips wrapping, pulling up slowly, the wet release, the maddening descent and ascent repeated again and again.

Sherlock presses back into the pillows, biting the knuckle that started all this. They need to be quiet. They're not alone like they usually are. He swallows his groans, tries to mute his rapid breathing. His fingers tangle into John's hair, telegraphing _engulf me, shatter me._ John understands, and slides Sherlock’s cock deeper into his throat.

Sherlock clutches at John's shoulder, his head tipping back, lips parted, voiceless until his body shudders and light bursts behind his eyes. John’s hands and mouth stroke him, empty him, soothe him.

He floats in the afterglow, any pain temporarily forgotten. He's half aware of John wiping his lips, then stretching out alongside his limp form.

“Good?” John asks suggestively, knowing full well that it was.

“Hell, yes,” Sherlock affirms sleepily. A few moments later he opens one eye. “What about you?” He glances down at John's lower half.

“Don't worry, you get the day off. But you owe me.”

“Are you keeping track?”

John leans on one elbow, smirking. “Maybe.”

A small smile plays on Sherlock's lips. He’s oddly content, despite his injuries. But the feeling fades when he thinks again about all the trouble he's causing John, the harsh realities of his work that Olivia is exposed to. The underbelly of London crime is not exactly a wholesome environment.

He turns to face John again, knowing he'll have to leave soon, that this intimate interlude will end, as they always have to. He runs a finger over the top of John's hand that's relaxed on the bed, tracing the winding track of one bluish vein.

If only he could do things differently, rework the tangled maze of events that have brought them to this point of being together only fleetingly, their relationship relegated to the shadows. Ghost lives.

Sherlock lays his hand over John's, covering it. “I wish…” _I wish I could be someone else for you._ He substitutes an easier truth. “I wish you didn't have to go.”

John touches Sherlock's cheek gently. “I'll call Harry, see if she can take Liv so I can stay longer.”

Relief surges through Sherlock, followed by a pang of guilt for making John choose him over Olivia. It's a feeling he wrestles with often. Maybe he's a selfish bastard, but today he’ll take John’s offer. He squeezes John's hand. “Thank you.”


	5. Chapter 5

The Christmas roast is in the oven, Harry and Olivia are putting the final touches on the tree, and John is hiding in Harry's bathroom with his phone clutched to his ear.

He's been trying to reach Sherlock for three days. All his texts have gone unanswered. John is uneasy about the silence, so now he's trying to call. He hopes the annoying ringing or incessant vibration will force Sherlock to pick up.

John hears the clipped tones of Sherlock's voicemail and he considers hanging up. Instead, he leaves a message. “Hey… Just wondering where you are. Give me a call, or whatever, to let me know you're okay. And… merry Christmas… I miss you.”

He ends the call and holds the phone a little longer, trying to tamp down the sense of yearning tightening his chest. He hasn't seen Sherlock in weeks, social obligations and holiday preparations filling up all the weekends. He would be delighted to never attend another dull party at some self-important surgeon’s home.

But it's part of the game, the expectations that come with working at the hospital. One must stroke the egos of the senior administrators and specialists, drink their fine wine and admire their lovely homes and wonderful taste in art. He hopes he's not being groomed for some tedious administrative position. He hates paperwork.

And Jesus, he’s tired of smiling weakly at the hints and jokes about setting him up with that single nurse in oncology or the gorgeous radiologist on the 4th floor. He’s not blind; the radiologist is bloody gorgeous. But so is his rather tall and infamous lover he never talks about.

Sometimes John imagines what it would be like to bring Sherlock to one of those parties, introduce him as his boyfriend, watch people's mouths fall open, and gasp when Sherlock insults the host. The thought lightens John’s mood, but only for a moment.

In some ways, he would love to let the world know they were together. It would be such a relief, ending the caution and secrecy. But, no, it wouldn't be wise. Sherlock is not exactly cut out for the cocktail and hors d'oeuvres crowd, and even less so for the suburbs and family life. That would be a disaster.

John doesn't even know where the hell Sherlock is at the moment. He can't count on Sherlock, not the way he would need him to be here for Christmas Eve and opening presents with Liv and chatting pleasantly with Harry over pudding.

He checks his phone once more. Nothing. Sighing, he slips it into his back pocket, mentally switches gears, and opens the bathroom door, rejoining his family.

“Dad!” Olivia bounds over to John, pulls at his arm. “Come look. Isn't it pretty?”

She leads him to the tree that's now aglow with lights and ornaments. John gazes at it, then at his daughter who is beaming up at him.

“It's lovely,” he says, slipping an arm around her narrow shoulders. “Really lovely.”

 

****************

 

Sherlock hears the phone vibrating across the top of the coffee table and ignores it. He knows it's John. He's sitting in his leather arm chair, the inky dusk settling around him. There’s not one stitch of holiday decoration in the flat, no tree or fairy lights or garland, just a small stack of unopened Christmas cards tossed on his desk.

He hates this time of year. It's nothing like it used to be when Mrs. Hudson and John both lived here. He's kept himself busy at Bart's running various experiments and analyses, trying to block out the garish store windows and relentless holiday music by burying himself in the cool, quiet sterility of the lab.

Sitting alone in the dark flat, Sherlock is conducting a secondary experiment. He runs a finger down the thin, pinkish line on his forearm, the recently acquired scar from the knife blade. The confrontation that led to the scar was another misstep, a close call that could have been much worse. Someday his luck will run out.

He's been contemplating this a lot lately, wondering if John wouldn't be better off without him.

He strokes the healed wound again. John deserves something better, someone he can rely on, someone who can be there day after day to help with parenting and providing a comfortable home, a predictable future, and steady companionship. Someone who won't bleed out in a grotty London alley.

Olivia deserves not to be dragged along to emergency rooms and shown the darker side of human nature pinned up on a wall. She deserves a chance at having two parents in a healthy, public relationship. She could use at least one adult in her life who isn't a recovering addict of one kind or another.

And so he’s experimenting, trying to live life without John.

It's been several weeks so far without physical contact. He's let the messages taper off, and, as of several days ago, go unanswered. It doesn't feel good, but stopping pleasurable things never does.

He's not ending their relationship, just questioning it. Putting it into a state of suspension for a period of time while he thinks.

John will worry about him, he knows. He owes him the courtesy of a reply. Sherlock retrieves his phone and listens to John's voice tinged with concern, his eyes fluttering closed when the message ends.

He steels himself and writes a short answer.

_I’m fine. Merry Christmas._

He turns off his phone. Tomorrow he will drive up to visit his parents. He's not sure if he's looking forward to it or not. He's not sure of anything anymore.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock struggles to wake when he hears quick, heavy footsteps and the bedroom door fly open.

He sits up in bed, half blind when the lights snap on, instantly bracing for something bad -- a punch in the face, a bag over the head, a gun to the temple.

“Why the _hell_ won't you answer your phone?”

He squints and sees John, who is clearly livid. Sherlock sags back into the pillows, dreading the inevitable conversation that is coming.

“It's been weeks with barely a word from you!” John is shouting and he hasn't taken off his winter coat. “What the blessed fuck is going on?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath through his nose, and carefully exhales. “John.” He pauses, willing his heart to slow down. “Put the kettle on and I'll explain.”

John’s eyes stab Sherlock with a mix of hurt and anger, but he turns on his heel and bangs cups and kettle in the kitchen.

Sherlock eases out of bed, slides his arms into a blue dressing gown. He worked late last night and isn't ready for this. He splashes water on his face, tries to smooth down the worst of his unruly hair.

In the kitchen they sit across from each other in tense silence, waiting for the water to boil.

John finally speaks. “Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Have I done something wrong?”

“You haven't.”

“Then why the silence?”

Sherlock tries to think of a way to approach this. “What door did you come in just now?”

John looks baffled. “The back one. Why?”

“If Olivia were with you, you would have used the front door.”

“Yeah, so?”

The kettle starts to rumble. “Wouldn't you rather always use the front door?”

John’s shoulders stiffen as he starts to understand the turn this is taking.

Sherlock stands up and tends to the tea, hands John a steaming mug.

“Angry, worried, horny… The back door,” Sherlock says dispassionately, stirring sugar into his tea. “Calm, respectable, just an old friend visiting… The front door.”

John clenches his hand into a fist. “What do you expect me to do?”

“I don't expect anything. But you… Maybe you ought to have more. With someone you don't have to hide.”

John looks stricken. Sherlock lowers his eyes, unable to hold his gaze.

“Are you… ending this?” John's voice is disbelieving.

Sherlock runs a finger along the scar on his arm. “I want to give you a choice. A chance for something better.”

John slowly shakes his head, reeling.

Sherlock leans forward, somber when he speaks. “Is this really what you want, John? A few hours or days here and there? Is this enough for you?”

John continues to shake his head slightly, as if he can't believe this conversation is happening. “Is it enough?” His hands flatten on the table with barely contained rage. “No, it's not bloody _enough_. But it's what we have, isn't it?”

Sherlock moves back in his chair as John seethes at him. “We've been doing this a long time, you and I, and now you're doubting me?”

“I didn't say that,” Sherlock corrects him quietly.

“Then what are you saying?” John challenges. “That I should just walk away? That I can magically find somebody else and live happily ever after?”

Sherlock is silent, watching the slight tremor in John's hands.

“What's the alternative, then?” John asks heatedly. “We go public, and damn the consequences?”

Sherlock again says nothing, knowing none of the options are feasible.

“No, I didn't think so.” John sits back in his chair, biting off any more words. He covers his mouth with one hand, avoiding eye contact with Sherlock.

This is going terribly. Sherlock tries to make John understand one more time. “I'm just suggesting… you and Olivia might be better off without me complicating things. And you might be happier with someone… less volatile.”

John turns an angry eye on him again. “Why? Is there someone you'd be happier with?”

Sherlock blanches. “No, of course not.”

John assesses him carefully, then takes a breath. “Look, I appreciate your intentions, but let _me_ fucking decide what’s best for Liv and me, okay?”

Sherlock rubs at an old scratch on the tabletop, subdued. They are repeating a circular argument that has no satisfactory resolution. And maybe, he realizes, he's assigning his own doubts and fears to John. A long silence follows.

He's finds himself saying the next words without really meaning to. “I saw my parents at Christmas,” he starts.

John watches him, listening.

“My father’s health is declining… He looked so frail. But my mother, she's strong as ever, and is taking care of him.” He pauses, picturing how his parents held hands at the breakfast table. “Seeing them together… how they are… I'm not sure we'll ever have that.”

He halts again, still rubbing at the mark on the wooden table. “And I can't even tell them about you.” He looks up at John, exhausted. “Sometimes I get so tired of all the secrets.”

John's shoulders go slack, anger drained. He wordlessly reaches across the table and entwines his fingers with Sherlock's. “I’m sorry,” John says softly. The pressure of his hand increases. “But I'm never leaving you, not unless you tell me to.”

Sherlock finds John's faith in him unfathomable. “How can you be so sure?”

Then it happens; John says it, natural as breathing: “Because I love you.”

Sherlock freezes, stunned. To his horror, his eyes suddenly ache, threatening to fill with tears. He blinks a few times, his throat thick.

John seems momentarily surprised at his own confession, then swiftly leans across the table and pulls Sherlock toward him, kissing him with a raw intensity they both feel down to their bones.

“I love you, goddammit,” John growls, his mouth trailing across Sherlock's. “I should have said it years ago.”

They maneuver away from the table, barely noticing the hard edges and corners digging against their hips and thighs, the cups rattling in their saucers. At last their bodies press together, the weeks of uncertainty and longing falling away. John's confession is an enormous weight lifted, a sweet tonic to the bitter hours of separation.

It's so simple, Sherlock realizes, his hands clutching John's back, what keeps them together in their odd compromise of a relationship. It's why they settle for every imperfect aspect. He just needs to say it out loud himself.

“John,” he murmurs before he loses courage, his voice soft, his lips hesitating at the corner of John's mouth, “I love you, too.”

He feels the curve of John's smile, and his heart soars, finally free.


	6. Chapter 6

The disaster that John feared would be unleashed by admitting his deepest feelings for Sherlock never happens. In fact, John discovers over time, it only strengthens their relationship.

He should have known that. It's the logical conclusion, a completely normal development. But he never expects normal anymore. He’s been through too much. Damaged badly. He still has trust issues. Enough to fill a book.

He wishes he could give himself over to Sherlock utterly and completely, but tiny slivers of his heart and soul and brain remain on guard, defensive. He loves Sherlock, and he trusts him not to intentionally hurt him again -- it's the unintentional he worries about. Sherlock has a way of doing things heedlessly, recklessly, seeming to forget that he actually matters to other people, that what happens to him has ripple effects.

But John can’t ask him to stop doing the work. It’s what keeps Sherlock from self-destructing. And what keeps John going day after day in his mundane-by-comparison work is Liv, and ensuring that her life is as secure as it can be.

John has turned it over and over in his mind, the reasons for keeping their lives separate and relationship secret all these years, and he’s had to ask himself if, at some deep level, he feels ashamed. He’s dug at that uncomfortable splinter of a thought, but that’s not it. He no longer gives a damn what other people think about who he is or isn't sleeping with.

It’s something else -- something he’s carried with him since being shot, since seeing Sherlock fall from that roof, since Mary’s betrayal -- fear. Terror, if he’s honest, of losing control, of being swept away and devastated again by someone else’s actions. He can’t expose himself like that again, won’t let Liv be pulled under by the dangerous currents that swirl around the edges of Sherlock’s life.

If it was just him, John wonders, if he was unattached and had no responsibility to anyone other than himself, would he be with Sherlock now? Would he risk being decimated again, staring at Sherlock's empty chair, drinking the pain away? He doesn't know. He doesn't know if Liv is the reason he's not with Sherlock, or if she's the excuse, or if she has nothing to do with it at all. It's that goddamned complicated.

He's never resented Liv, not for one second. She is, in many ways, his anchor. She's kept him human. Without her, parts of him might have turned monstrous, vengeful... He doesn't like to think about that, either.

So while it's not perfect, John and Sherlock’s relationship right now is good. Very, very good. They've made it through more than one rough spot -- spats and quibbles, long separations due to work or other obligations, the death of Sherlock's father.

John thinks back to the funeral. He’d never seen Sherlock affected like that before. He put on an stoic face in public, but when they were alone, it was a different story.

That night, after the funeral service was over and the visitors had left the Holmes’, John had tapped lightly on Sherlock’s bedroom door. The house was quiet. Mrs. Holmes had retired early, Olivia was miffed for some reason and had holed up in her guest room, and Mycroft had vanished into the library with a laptop and decanter of brandy.

John tentatively pushed the door open and glanced in. Sherlock was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Can I get you anything?” John asked softly.

Sherlock didn't answer, only lifting a hand out to John.

John shut the door, crossed the room, and took Sherlock's hand. Sherlock moved over so he could sit on the edge of the bed.

They sat in silence, and John looked around Sherlock's boyhood room. Bookshelves lined with novels and textbooks, a wooden model of a sailing ship, seashells, a desk with a study lamp, a microscope, an old, sepia-toned map of London.

Sherlock curled onto his side. “Stay with me.”

John looked down at him, could see how was struggling with his grief. He stroked Sherlock's hair. “Of course.”

They shifted and found just enough space in the narrow bed to wrap around each other, an island of comfort in a sea of misery.

That had been nearly two years ago. Now, John is enjoying a much-needed holiday in Spain. He'd started out in Barcelona for several obligatory conference days, then traveled to meet Sherlock in this not-overly-touristy town along the coast.

He walks down a street lined with small shops, tilting his face up to the warm sun. He slips on a pair of sunglasses. Handsome men in cotton shirts and pretty women in flimsy dresses stroll past him, a parade of sandals, unbuttoned collars, and sun-kissed shoulders.

A woman in a tight green dress passes by. The unusual color catches John's attention, then her brown eyes, then her knowing smile. His neck swivels just enough to catch a pleasing glimpse of curves as she walks away.

“Really, John. That's hardly subtle.”

Sherlock is suddenly standing next to him, and John can only admit to the deed. “I’m just appreciating the scenery.”

“Then you won't mind if I look over there.” Sherlock nods toward a group of shirtless young men passing a football back and forth, their well-defined abs and shoulders flexing with each movement.

“Hmm,” John says thoughtfully, “this is a very picturesque town. Excellent choice.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and puts on his sunglasses. “Let's get you a cold drink, shall we?”

John refuses to be chastised and gladly follows Sherlock to a cafe along the shady side of the street. Sherlock reads a newspaper while John continues to people watch and sip sangria. He's relaxed and in a generous mood, finding something pleasing in everything he sees.

His gaze lands on Sherlock and his sentiment flows even more freely. He admires Sherlock’s long fingers holding the paper, the faint tan beneath the white shirt where the sleeves are rolled up. He's enamored with the cheekbones, still sharp above a jawline that's grown just a tad softer over the years.

Sherlock has taken to trimming his hair shorter, taming the wildest of the curls, but it suits him. He looks elegant, distinguished. John savors the thought of disheveling this well-dressed, rather refined creature across from him in the cool privacy of their rented villa.

Sherlock glances up and John knows he can tell exactly what he’s thinking.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifts slightly. “You do have a one-track mind,” he says mildly while turning a page.

John grins into his glass. Maybe it’s ridiculous to still be so infatuated at their age -- they’re both in their 50s -- but he doesn’t care. He’s going to take advantage of every minute of this getaway, almost a week alone with Sherlock.

It was surprisingly easy to plan this trip. These days Olivia is so busy with school and swimming and her friends; it seems like he rarely sees her unless they pass in the foyer on the way in or out of the house.

Even though she's 16 and quite capable, Olivia is staying with Harry for the week. John calls her every day while he’s gone to check in and chat a bit. He hasn’t mentioned Sherlock, of course; he’d only said he was going to a lengthy conference in Barcelona. Olivia hadn't seemed particularly interested in his trip, merely nodding when he told her. Fair enough.

The sun climbs higher and the town slows with the increasing heat. Sherlock folds the paper closed. “Siesta,” he announces.

John agrees, and they set out for the little house along the shore. The walls are thick, keeping the rooms cool. They stretch out on top of the sheets in the dim bedroom, a fan turning above them, the waves murmuring in the distance. His hand lies on Sherlock’s chest, measuring the even rise and fall of his breath.

“I love this place,” John murmurs contentedly.

“Love you, too,” Sherlock mumbles in reply, clearly half asleep already and not really listening.

John smiles to himself, amazed at how easily those words fall from their tongues now. He settles his head into the pillow and is soon lulled to sleep.

When John wakes, he is alone in the bed. He wanders to the tiny kitchen and drinks a glass of water, still a bit foggy from the nap. He looks out the window toward the sea and spies a lone figure walking along the beach. He would know that lanky silhouette anywhere.

John goes outside, leaving behind his shoes and rolling up the hem of his trousers several inches. The salt air is bracing and the sand is warm on his bare feet. He soon catches up to Sherlock, who smiles in welcome.

They walk along in a companionable silence, eventually letting the waves lap over their feet with cold, foamy water.

Sherlock’s eyes are far away on the horizon when he speaks.

_“I grow old … I grow old …  
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled._

_Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?  
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.”_

John can't place the lines for a moment, then it clicks. “T.S Eliot.” He glances at Sherlock, surprised that he'd ever bothered to memorize poetry. “You're not so old, you know.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Not so young, either.” He leans down to fish a smooth rock out of the water and skips it over the waves. “Maybe, some day, I'd like to live by the sea.”

“Really?” John had never heard him mention it before. “What would you do with yourself so far away from London?”

Sherlock skips another stone. “Walk. Think. Play the violin. I don't really know.”

John clasps his hands behind his back, imagining what he would do if he had the luxury of free time and a house on the coast. “I'd write.”

Sherlock hands John a stone perfect for skipping. “You should.”

“I thought you hated my writing,” John says in astonishment.

“Well, ‘hate’ is a strong word…”

That is as close to a compliment as Sherlock will ever offer, making John grin. He chucks the rock at the water and it bounces three times before sinking. “C’mon. Let's go back and see what's in for dinner.”

They rummage together a simple but delicious meal of an omelette, sharp cheese, olives, rustic bread, and, appropriately enough, sweet peaches that dribble over their fingers and down their chins.

They dine on the patio shaded by the leaves of a twisted old tree and drink local red wine. They clear the dishes then move to an outdoor sofa covered with white cushions for a second glass of wine, sitting side by side while watching the sun set.

The evening grows cooler and deep indigo shadows are spilling across the flagstones when they lean in and let their lips softly meet. Their entire day is in that kiss -- sun and salt air, the cafe and tanned skin, wine and fragrant peaches -- the lazy build to this moment of inhaling each other, capturing bottom lips, slipping hands up sides, fingers playing along napes.

Shirt buttons fall open one by one. Sherlock presses John down into the cushions, his mouth skimming along John's jawline. The house and patio are now almost completely dark. John shivers when he feels Sherlock’s breath on his ear, his whispered words taking a moment to sink in.

“Let’s fuck here.”

There's not even time to answer before Sherlock pushes himself off of John and disappears inside the house. He soon returns, a lit candle in one hand, a bottle of lube in the other.

The candle flickers when Sherlock sets it on a nearby table. His shirt slips off his shoulders as he slides next to John again, his mouth honing in on John's.

The day just keeps getting better, John manages to think as Sherlock’s palms run down his chest. Sherlock is in one of his assertive moods, and John is eager to follow his whims.

Their shirts are gradually discarded, and John kisses the freckles dotting the long neck above him. Busy fingers unbutton and unzip trousers, work them down and off. Shadows dance over bare skin as Sherlock guides John to where he wants him -- sitting with his feet on the flagstones and his back against the couch -- and straddles him.

Sherlock's thighs are warm and firm against John’s, but this thought is soon replaced by the heat of Sherlock's hand curling around both of their cocks. God, he loves those enormous hands, but he may love the round ass perched on his knees even more. Actually, he can't decide, because Christ, that hand is moving in enticing ways.

Maybe it's because they're outdoors, and although it's unlikely the neighbors will see or hear anything, John feels electric, alive, hungrily accepting the kisses that Sherlock bestows on his mouth in between leisurely strokes of their cocks.

John's hands glide over Sherlock's hips, and he trails his fingers down the cleft between his cheeks until he finds the sensitive spot he's looking for. He crooks a finger and presses it in gently. Sherlock pauses, adjusts, and John claims his mouth, slipping the tip of his tongue between Sherlock's lips. His tongue and finger tease in tandem until Sherlock emits a small moan.

They kiss and stroke and take their time until Sherlock stretches out an arm to find the lube. The slippery liquid is cold at first, a bit of a shock, but Sherlock's hands are warm as he massages the lube onto John's thick cock.

Sherlock drizzles more lube onto his fingers and reaches behind with one hand to prepare himself, never breaking eye contact. Desire coils in John's belly, a tight spring begging to be released.

They shift slightly, and Sherlock slowly sinks down onto John's hard prick, his knees pressing into the sofa cushions, his hands braced on John's shoulders. John breathes shallowly, the heat of Sherlock's body surrounding his cock like a tight sheath.

John's palms slide back to those taut buttocks, his fingertips sensing how Sherlock will move, anticipating the lift and drop of his hips. John gazes up at Sherlock's face, the shadows playing across his eyes and cheekbones, the glow of candlelight illuminating the planes and angles of his torso. It's so good, this moment, the waves rolling onto the shore, the balmy night and clear sky, their bodies coupled together.

“It's perfect,” John breathes against the base of Sherlock's throat, lost in skin and pleasure and the intimacy of their movements.

Sherlock changes course, rolling onto his back, pulling John on top of him. John goes along with the change, adapting to the new position, one knee jammed between Sherlock’s side and the back of the couch, the other leg finding footing on the still warm stones of the patio floor. Nice leverage for some deep penetration, John can't help but notice.

Sherlock hooks his calves around John's waist, his thumbs teasing over John's nipples. “Fuck me.”

“Like this?” John asks silkily, pushing in again ever so slowly.

Sherlock arches his back, licks his lips.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” John promises.

The sofa creaks agreeably as John slides deeper, pulls back, and plunges forward again, finding a rhythm that suits them both. And it's a good one, judging by the way Sherlock's fingers are digging into his shoulders and gaze is burning into his eyes.

The cushions bear their punishment of pounding hips and gouging knees with determined resiliency, springing back thrust after thrust.

Sherlock groans, turning his head to the side, his hand fondling his cock. “God, yes… _Fuck_ …”

A bead of sweat rolls down John's back, the animalistic urge pooling at the base of his groin about to erupt. The guttering candle reveals tantalizing details -- the redness of Sherlock's swollen lips, the pink flush covering his chest and cheeks, the damp hair around his forehead, the jut of his chin, the slope of his ribs.

The sudden pressure of two giant hands grasping his ass trips the wire on John's orgasm, and he’s moaning loudly, his hips stuttering, pressing and grinding out his hot, lusty release into Sherlock's body beneath him.

Sherlock strokes himself off, his breath concentrated in small huffs until he hisses between his teeth, the first intense pulses of come shooting up to his chest, secondary waves spilling over his fingers and onto his stomach.

John collapses untidily onto Sherlock's warm chest, and Sherlock's arms encircle him, their lungs working to regain even breaths.

“Oh, God,” John murmurs, “that was amazing.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock agrees hazily.

They remain sprawled on the sofa, unwilling to move until it's finally uncomfortable being so squished together. They disentangle themselves and pick up the candle, bringing it back to the bedroom. They slip under the covers and Sherlock blows out the flame, turning on his side to gather John against him again.

The quiet is broken by the buzz of John's phone vibrating on the nightstand. John fumbles for the phone, reads the text.

“Shit, it's Liv. I forgot to call tonight.”

“So do it now.”

“I’ll call tomorrow,” John answers distractedly, tapping out a reply.

Sherlock waits through their brief exchange, speaking gently when John sets the phone back down.

“Are you ever going to tell her?”

John glances away, conflicted. “Maybe, someday. I don't know.”

Sherlock hesitates, then says what they're both thinking. “She's smart. She's not a little girl anymore. She might figure it out.”

“I know,” John answers curtly, then sighs. He looks back at Sherlock. “Maybe I'm just a terrible father.”

Sherlock puts his hand on John's arm. “That's not true.”

John shrugs, unconvinced, and pulls the sheet up to his shoulder, laying his head back on the pillow. Sherlock spoons him, his mouth on the nape of his neck.

“Everyone has secrets,” Sherlock murmurs.

John stares into the darkness. It's not a particularly comforting thought, but it's true. At least the weight of Sherlock's arm around him makes it bearable.

Behind him, Sherlock also gazes into the night. He accepted long ago that John is always going to keep a thin but impenetrable wall between them. John's need for privacy and separate lives is rooted in concern for Olivia, and Sherlock has always understood that.

It is also, Sherlock has come to realize, a defense mechanism. Some part of John has been so hurt, so betrayed, that he is never going to allow anyone to completely consume him again. He needs to maintain his own independent life, control his own course. As much as it pains him, Sherlock understands this, too. After all, he caused much of that damage.

Sherlock will let John decide whatever it is -- however it is -- John needs them to be together. He will love him and wait and maybe, someday, that last wall will come down.


	7. Chapter 7

It happened so gradually that it took Sherlock awhile to notice. A razor, a jacket, a pair of shoes, a book, several neatly folded shirts nested in a corner of a dresser drawer. More than a few items that belong to John have slowly found a permanent home at Baker Street.

Sherlock contemplates this as he pours two cups of coffee (John's preferred brand, a roast darker than Sherlock really cares for, but he makes an exception for John).

John began staying with him quite often during Olivia’s year traveling abroad. John missed her, found the house too empty with her gone. He started spending more time helping on cases, sometimes even accompanying Sherlock on his investigations, sometimes staying more than one night.

And so the shirts and shoes and coffee crept into the flat.

It's been wonderful, Sherlock thinks, stirring sugar into his mug, having John here, working on cases, watching crap telly, reading through John's draft manuscript, waking up together, showering, falling back into bed with damp hair and hard cocks and eager mouths.

But yesterday, everything changed. Yesterday, John went with him on a case and got grazed by a bullet along his thigh, because he, the illustrious Sherlock Holmes, fucked up. He was careless and didn't see the signs that should have warned him of danger.

He taps the spoon angrily against the edge of his cup. He failed to protect John, although he managed to get him back to the flat where they could treat the wound and avoid any police involvement.

Sherlock had contacted Olivia, barely back from her travels, to drive John home -- only that didn't happen. Instead, he and Olivia ended up having a serious chat while smoking stale cigarettes on the rooftop. An important revelation came to light, and now he has to tell John.

It's time. He needs to do it. He wants to do it. He takes a deep breath, picks up both mugs, and walks to the bedroom where John is just waking up.

John looks up with a smile as Sherlock enters, his bandaged leg stretched out on the bed. Sherlock hands him a mug and sits on the edge of the mattress.

Before John even takes a sip, Sherlock starts blurting it out. “Yesterday, while you were sleeping, Olivia was here. I told her what happened, and I intended for her to take you home, but we started talking… And…” He grips his mug with both hands, nervous.

John narrows his eyes. “And what?”

Sherlock tries to calm his nerves. “And she gave me some excellent advice.” He takes a sip of coffee, biding his time. “You have an exceptional daughter.”

“Thanks. I agree,” John says, clearly suspicious. “What are you getting at?”

Sherlock takes another breath. He looks at John, unable to think of any easy way to tell him that what they've kept hidden for so long is no longer secret. So he simply says it. “She knows, John. She knows about us. She has for years.”

John goes pale, his cup stopped halfway to his mouth.

Sherlock swallows and pushes on, not wanting to lose momentum. “She's fine with it. She said not to worry about her.” He pauses again, steals another glance at John, and slows his pace. “She said she wants us to be happy,” he adds gently.

A million emotions flit across John's face as he struggles to comprehend. “How -- ? Liv _told_ you this?”

Sherlock patiently explains the rooftop conversation with Olivia, then  
decides to lay out all his cards. “She also suggested I tell you something else.”

John sets his coffee mug aside, visibly shaken but trying to prepare for the next shock.

“I'm done, John. I've been thinking it over, and I'm ready to retire and leave London.” He looks directly at John. “What happened yesterday was my fault. I don't want to risk it anymore. I don't want anything to happen to you, or to me… It's time to step away and start something else. And I want you to come with me.”

Stunned, John can barely force out one overwhelmed sentence. “And go where?”

“Sussex Downs.” He grips John's knee. “There's a cottage by the sea. You can write. We can finally be together.”

John can do little more than run his hands down his face as if he's trying to wake from a strange dream. He looks lost, uncertain, everything knocked sideways. “I’m just… I don't know what to say…”

Sherlock wants to be calm and rational, wants to give John time to process everything he's just told him, but he's been waiting so many years for this chance that he can't bear it any longer. He winds a hand around John's in a sudden gesture that transmits every aching second of the decades they've spent apart. His throat tightens. He’ll beg if he has to.

“Please, John.” His voice quakes. He's never wanted anything more in his life. “Please say you'll come with me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Icy raindrops tap against the window panes, waking Sherlock from a deep slumber. He opens one eye, takes stock of the dark grey early morning, and burrows deeper under the covers. It's chilly in the bedroom, so he wriggles closer to John’s warm back, slides his bare feet under John's.

John makes a small grunt in protest, sleepily flexes his toes against the long, cold feet stealing his heat.

Sherlock could stay like this for hours, lounging in bed, soaking in the solid warmth of John's body and the sound of his soft breathing. This is exactly what Sherlock had hoped for, to be tucked away from the world with John in the cottage by the sea.

They've been here nearly three years. Surprisingly, he's never bored. The bees have been a fascinating venture. He's been composing a few violin pieces, enjoying long rambles with their dog Stamford, swimming in the little cove below the house when the weather is warm. And of course, there is John's second book he's working on about some of the more interesting cases.

It's strange, how eagerly the public consumes the stories, yet he and John have become almost footnotes in their own history. He’s occasionally referred to as “the reclusive detective” along with his “author colleague,” the retired Dr. Watson. If the greater world has become aware of their cohabitation, it has done so with a shrug. Tales of gruesome murders, blackmail, and thievery are much more scintillating.

The winter rain continues to pelt the window, and his mind drifts to the hives, briefly worrying about how they'll fare through the cold months. The click of toenails on the wood floor and an inquisitive whine turns his thoughts again. He puts out a hand and strokes the soft fur behind Stamford’s ears. He eases out of bed and dresses quietly, trying not to disturb John, then walks the dog to the kitchen and lets him out the back door.

Sherlock loiters by the window over the kitchen sink, looking out toward the hives. Maybe he will check them, just to stretch his legs…

By the time he returns, he's soaked, Stamford’s paws are muddy, and John has built a cheerful fire crackling in the grate.

“You're freezing!” John chastises as he helps Sherlock out of his wet coat. “And wipe his feet,” he grumbles, tossing Sherlock an old towel for Stamford’s paws. “Can't keep anything clean around here.”

Sherlock does a cursory swipe over the paws and abandons the towel on the kitchen floor. He pulls John against him, sliding his cold hands around his back. “Tetchy,” he teases.

“You smell like rain and dog,” John mutters, giving in when Sherlock nuzzles his neck. His arms loop around Sherlock's waist. “Even your nose is cold.”

“Make me some tea, then.”

“Kettle’s already on.”

Sherlock hums approvingly and brushes his lips over John's before breaking away to go shave and change into dry clothes.

“Liv’s coming this morning, remember?” John calls after him.

“The 10:20 train. You've told me six times.”

“Stop counting,” John sighs.

John soon comes into the bedroom with a mug of tea for Sherlock as he's pulling on a fresh shirt. John sets the mug down and comes to Sherlock, lays his palms on his bare chest.

John is much more relaxed since they moved here, much more open now that they are retired. It helps that Sherlock's list of enemies has thinned considerably with his lowered profile. He given up risky cases, concentrating instead on unsolved crimes from years ago that Lestrade sends his way. Someday, he may suggest to John that he accept living clients again -- just simple cases -- but not yet.

John lets his hands linger for a moment, then he draws the edges of the white shirt together and begins doing the buttons. It's these intimate little moments that catch at Sherlock's heart and make the long years of waiting worth it.

John finishes the last button and smooths the front of the shirt. “You clean up alright,” he says with a faint smile.

Sherlock leans down and kisses John with more passion than a few buttons generally call for. John looks at him, surprised. “What was that for?”

“For letting me in,” Sherlock answers softly.

John's expression is only mildly puzzled; he's used to cryptic comments from Sherlock, but knows they usually have some deeper meaning. He strokes a hand down the shirt front once more. “I'll be leaving in a bit. Want to come along?”

Sherlock declines. “I'll let you two talk about me on the ride here.”

He attempts to tidy his desk while John is out picking up Olivia at the station. He adds a log to the fire, straightens the skull on the mantle. Liv will insist on putting up holiday decorations like she always does.

He finds the biscuits she likes and sets them out for later. He picks up his book and settles in his chair, absently petting Stamford from time to time.

When Stamford suddenly lifts his head, Sherlock puts down his book. He soon hears the crunch of wheels on gravel. He stands, buttons his suit jacket, and adjusts his cuffs. He hears John and Olivia laughing as they dash to the door through the drizzle.

Sherlock opens the door, smiles at the sight of their bright faces and matching blue eyes, and is flooded with a sense of well-being. He lets Olivia, perched on her tiptoes, pull him into a hug. He catches John's soft expression looking at them both.

Sherlock kisses her cheek. “Hello.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, they're happy again at last! 
> 
> So one of my first inspirations for telling this story has to do with structure -- note what the very first and very last words of the story are. Sort of their relationship in a nutshell. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and I'd love to hear from you!


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